


First Tracks

by swat117



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ski Resort, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Only One Bed, Patrick teaches David a sport, Stevie is also around, actual skiing, basically a hallmark movie, heights, skiing as metaphor, unfashionable outerwear, winter aesthetics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25462891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swat117/pseuds/swat117
Summary: Patrick Brewer: sexy, sensitive, ski instructor. David Rose: reluctant pupil.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 97
Kudos: 243
Collections: Schitt’s Creek Sports Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCSportsFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCSportsFest) collection. 



> Alternate title: _On the Slopes of Love_  
>  I think that just about tells you everything you are in for.

David has found himself in plenty of situations he never would have imagined.

He never imagined, for example, that he’d find himself at Sunset Towers on Oscar night holding Jennifer Lawrence's statue and hair as she leaned over the toilet. While he _could imagine_ , à la _Bridget Jones’ Diary 2_ , leading his fellow convicts in a stirring rendition of “Like A Virgin,” he never imagined the part about spending the night in a Thai jail in the first place, a consequence of traveling to bail his sister out of the very same cell. He certainly never imagined walking Wailea Beach in a pair of Iron Man-themed Crocks™, but they were the only shoes on sale in the gift shop, and he never imagined having his Fendi slides eaten by a dolphin, either.

Entering his thirties, he learned to reserve his presumptions about life's many mysteries. Other people could waste the energy making predictions and planning futures. David knew better. Sure, he loved a good anxiety spiral as much as the next person and wasn’t exempt from dreaming up crazy plans simply because he knew they were unrealistic, but he never counted on those dreams to come true. He knew all that was just sport, something to fill time while he waited for life to run its wild and unforeseeable course.

Like, for example, today: He’s standing on top of a mountain, hundreds of meters above sea level, strapped into bright orange boots attached to white and yellow blades, about to careen down a snow-covered hill and _looking forward_ to it.

And on his right, ready to slide down with him, was someone who thinks he is _good._

x

This isn’t David’s first time at Schitt’s Peak. This isn’t even David’s first time here on a rescue mission for Alexis. They know him by name at the chalet, the staff and even some regular guests. He’s always liked it up here in the mountains, aesthetically speaking. Amber flames cast shadows of wooden structural beams across the floor, and the smell of hot cider populates the air. Everyone’s sweater game was—what did the kids say?—on fleek. He pulled on his own best cable knit, drank Bailey's-spiked hot chocolate, and watched movies curled up next to the fire surrounded by timber-chic decor.

One thing he didn’t do? Ski.

He'd had to snowboard once, not here, but on a high school class trip when appearances demanded his presence in the snow. It didn’t go well, as David should have predicted. At the time he thought it looked easy enough, so he confidently hopped on a board. It all went downhill from there, quite literally. Perhaps, appearances be damned, he should have stayed at the bottom to cheer his “friends” on. His reputation suffered more on that day than the whole two years prior (which was saying a lot given those years had included the Melissa Joan Hart Incident of 1996).

No one around here asked him to hit the slopes anymore, not after his hostile refusal the first half-dozen stays. He went about his other wintry business: adding pinecone accents to the hotel’s bland evergreen wreaths and singing karaoke to “All I Want For Christmas Is You.” He drinks with Stevie, the manager. He makes small talk with Twyla, the hotel restaurant’s star waitress. He heckles the other guests with Ronnie, the head of facilities.

He liked to be here, mostly alone, but in a crowd. It’s not the community he ever thought he’d look forward to returning to, but he now ranks this motley crew as better friends than the high school posse who abandoned him at the first sign of a wipeout. Probably better than everyone who came since, too.

But he still doesn’t ski.

That is, until Patrick.

Patrick, the latest ski instructor hire on the property, who has all the big-city housewives wrapped around his finger. Patrick, who tells dad jokes while signing autographs for the kids in his beginner class as _Coach P_. Patrick, with a habit of strolling into the lodge lobby while pulling his neck gaiter over his head to the great disruption of his hair, smiling cheek-to-rosy-wind-flushed-cheek and winking at David before heading into the staff room.

Patrick, who did not get the memo about David’s hard-won athletic exemption.

x

His own name was the first thing David ever heard out of Patrick’s mouth, a good three days after the winking began.

David had been sitting in the resort business center, chair tipped and resting precariously on its back legs and computer open to his email while he waited for the expedited forms to come through for Alexis' new passport filing, when Patrick had walked up to him. His dungaree snow pants had been rolled down to his hips with nothing but a taught long underwear layer on top. David could see the turns and ridges of Patrick’s bicep muscles, amplified by the skintight spandex-blend.

“And here I am, without the pleasure of knowing your name,” David replied, looking back down at his phone screen as he spoke. It was a lie, but he had to keep up the mystery somehow. His feigned indifference was Teen Choice Award-winning.

“Right,” the _nameless gentleman_ replied, rubbing the back of his neck in demure. "Patrick. Patrick Brewer.”

Patrick had held a hand out for David to shake, warm despite belonging to someone who spent so much of his day out in the snow.

“May I help you?”

“I thought maybe I could help you,” Patrick said.

David scoffed. “Do you happen to run a trafficking business? Because about the only thing that needs helping right now is my sister’s ability to cross the border within the next forty-eight hours.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” Patrick ducked his head down and bit his lip.

David had been watching from afar for the last few days. Being in the cast of the sun was blinding.

“But, uh, no,” Patrick continued. “I’m one of the new instructors on the mountain? I haven’t seen you on the slopes. Thought I’d offer my services."

“Mmm, that’s kind of you, thanks so much, but obviously I’m somewhat preoccupied,” he’d said, when what he'd really wanted to do was ask for the full, detailed menu of services on offer.

“Right, sorry,” Patrick’s body started to turn before his head, like he’d known he should leave but couldn’t help adding one more thing. “I just don’t understand why you would come to a ski resort and well, not ski? You might enjoy it.”

David was very tired of this conversation, tired of explaining himself to another ski bro. “You’re either very impatient or extremely sure of yourself.”

“Threw you down a bit of a bomber there.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

Patrick laughed, but to David’s confusion, it hadn’t quite sounded like it was directed at him? “I promise it’s not that hard. I’m sure you can pick it up.”

David wordlessly signaled _are we done here?_ by the tilt of his chin alone.

“Take this. It’s my card.” As David glared, Patrick placed the rectangular paper down on the desk. “I teach every day but Tuesday.”

He’d slipped the card into his pocket to forget about indefinitely. Let the dry cleaners find it a few weeks from now. That would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

x

David makes it into the lobby just as Alexis has gotten back from her own trip down the mountain. ( _If I'm stranded here, I'm going to enjoy it,_ she’d asserted. God forbid she just enjoy hanging out with the thankless brother who flew across the country to her rescue on two-hours’ notice.) Patrick is standing with her near the main door, wide-eyed as she playfully pats his chest and fiddles with his lift tag. David watches from a distance. Another guest, eager as everyone else is for the instructor's attention, is what breaks up their flirting. As Patrick exits, David heads over to his sister.

"So what’s going on there?” David questions, cause he’s, like, interested in his sister’s life.

“Nothing,” Alexis pouts. "He hasn’t even asked for my phone number. Which, in my experience means that he’s either newly married or he’s gay. So, like, if you’re sensing a vibe or something.” She winks, and David pales.

“He’s a _ski instructor_ who wears the same polyester-fleece blend North Face vest every day. He’s not into me.”

“Well it’s either that or he always has something stuck in his eye when he looks at you.”

“Okay, well I think you have a branch stuck in your hair.”

“Where?” Easy target. While Alexis paws frantically at her locks, David heads over to the bar.

Stevie isn’t any subtler. He’s only one eggnog in when she brings it up.

“He’s a pretty eligible bachelor,” she says, apropos of nothing.

“Who?” David asks like he doesn’t know exactly what she’s talking about. But why she’s bringing it up to him, he’d rather not explore.

“Patrick.” Stevie enunciates both syllables with a click. “You know how we hired him? He used to work at the resort down the other side of the valley. He was engaged to another one of the coaches there—”

“Mmm,” David inserts, hoping it sounds something like indifference.

“—well, they’d been together for years, a Canada ski resort celebrity couple. Out of the blue, Ray gets a call. It’s Patrick, and he says he’s leaving his job, and are we hiring? Of course we said yes, the moms love him, the kids love him. Hell, seems like even you…”

David is suddenly having trouble staying upright on his bar seat. “What—I’ve. Literally had one conversation with him,” he says, attempting to re-center his perch and offering no legitimacy to his words in the process.

“Because that makes a difference.” Her face makes it clear that it doesn’t.

"What are you doing." David stares her down. The last thing David needed was someone else predicting this for him, let alone his own mind kindling hope.

“I’m just saying. Guy breaks off a ten-year relationship after a few weeks engaged? There’s more to the story than the relationship ‘just wasn’t working anymore.’ ” David silently balks. “Plus, he offered to teach you to ski. Sounds like a lot of _alone time_.”

“Yes, but, unlike you and I, he’s extremely generous and has absolutely no ulterior motive.”

“So, are you going to take him up on his extremely generous offer?” Stevie’s grin is not generous. “Because it would be rude to turn down someone who was that, you know, _generous_. I’d hate for you to miss out on the other ways he might be… _generous._ ”

“Will you stop saying generous?” David snaps. “It doesn’t even sound like a real word anymore.”

"I like this for you."

“Like? There’s nothing to like?”

"You seem flustered,” she says around the rim of her glass.

He catches his reflection in the mirrored backsplash of the bar. His face is flush, creeping high up to his cheekbones. His eyes are wide, and his hair sticks up more than usual—has he been running his hand through it this whole time?

“Maybe it’s the eggnog.”

x

Two days and approximately twenty winks (still no explanation) from Patrick later, David has managed to resolve Alexis’ migration status. They were planning to fly to New York together, but apparently two days was also enough time to get her an invite from the Crown Prince of Monaco to join him on safari. He should have predicted that, really.

David puts Alexis into a sleek, black Benz with a quick hug and her promise to wait at least two months before needing his help again. "Actually, make it three at least, god," he shouts back as she rolls up the window, and the car pulls away. David watches her disappear down the drive and steadies himself against the wooden beams holding up the hotel awning.

Across the driveway he sees Patrick arriving back to base with a group of the other instructors. They smile and laugh, visibly invigorated from their slide down a no-doubt challenging Black Opal.

He should still fly back to New York tomorrow, should go book his flight now before it gets too late.

He opens up Messages.

_Hey its Patrick,_ he texts the local number. 

Fuck.

_You know what I mean  
So  
Tomorrow?  
I am not wearing those metallic reflective goggles  
There has to be another way_

He sees Patrick look down at his phone just as the group turns a corner out of his sight. The chat bubbles on Patrick’s end of the phone appear quickly, then disappear for a totally chill three minutes.

Then finally: _Meet me at the pro shop, 8am! But, sorry, there is no other way._

_10_

_OK David, 9 it is. ;)_

x

Just because David doesn’t ski, doesn’t mean he hasn’t brought the right clothes. Part of masquerading around here for so long without the suggestion from anyone else to coach him, he thinks, is that he dressed the part.

So, when he begrudgingly wakes up to his 8am alarm, he pulls on a base layer, his favorite warm wool, and covers it in head-to-toe Mont Blanc Cordova. So what if it’s a women’s wear collection—if it works, it works. David stands in front of the mirror making his final adjustments.

It works.

A self-proclaimed vision-in-white, David runs into Patrick before he makes it to the store, or rather, Patrick finds him.

“Caramel macchiato, skim—” he is mid-ordering, as he feels the presence of another person slide up behind him.

He doesn’t have to look to see who it is, because Patrick starts to talk. “Good idea. We don’t want you falling asleep or fainting from low blood sugar up there. It would be a long slide down."

And, oh god, now the image of his unconscious body rolling down a mountain is all that he can picture. When he turns around to look at Patrick, the movie behind his eyes must be evident, because Patrick rushes to correct.

“I’m kidding David, kidding. And, if you do, I promise to catch and then carry you back down to safety myself.” David is annoyingly comforted by this. He shouldn’t dwell too long on that, lest he start weighing the pros and cons of a broken bone just to find out what Patrick’s embrace is made of.

“Shall we get the torture started with?” David replies, not knowing of which torture he speaks.

“That’s the spirit,” Patrick says with a heap of irony, hand clapping David’s shoulder. David only teeters slightly at the contact.

The torture is, apparently: ski boots. Whoever designed those things had clearly done so with the goal of offending David specifically in mind. The options were: bright blue, neon green, black accented with neon green, and of course, construction cone orange. Was this sport sponsored by Sharpie highlighters? If not, could he broker an ad deal and get the 10% commission? That was the least he should be compensated for having to wear these.

“You’re lucky this ensemble can support any color accent,” David scathed.

Patrick didn’t deign that with a verbal response, just a little smirk as he knelt down to help David clip into the chosen pair. Patrick looking up at him through long eyelashes was, in fact, unhelpful.

After that circus, David thought the day couldn’t get any worse. But, it does—and quickly—in the last way David would have imagined.

Patrick leads him out to a moving walkway, and they ride the ski treadmill thirty seconds up to the top of an enclosed area around a low rake hill. As they near the top of the treadmill, he hears them. As they slide off the treadmill, he sees them. His worst fears are confirmed: Six boisterous children, none taller than David’s waist, are lined up and waiting.

“What. Is. Going on.” David tries to glare a hole through the side of Patrick’s head. He doesn’t get a reply. Patrick jumps right into teacher mode.

“Hi gang, how are we doing this morning?” He’s bubbly, welcoming, and the kids eat it up, jumping up and down in their little snowsuits and baby helmets. It’s disgusting. “You can call me Coach P, and I’ll be teaching you how to ski today. There’s _snow_ way you’ll leave class without the skills to hit the slopes soon.” David buries his face in his mittens. “Are you ready to get started?”

They learn to pizza and then to french fry. Were all ski moves named after food groups? Was pizza a food group? David should have had more than coffee for breakfast. They are practicing without canes at the moment ( _Poles,_ Patrick reminds him) because apparently kids don’t use them when they are learning. David is not a child, however, and has a much higher center of gravity.

He spends the next fifty minutes flailing his arms in the air like a drunk extra in the Thriller video.

“Coach D,” one of the kids, Brian, or was it Brock, is speaking and prodding at his calf.

“Not a coach,” David bites back, but the tone is lost on the youth.

“Coach D, why do you keep falling down?” Patrick’s unsubtle chortle is not going to encourage a kind response to this mongrel’s question.

“Maybe Coach P,” David puts extra emphasis on the P, “isn’t a very good coach after all.”

“No,” says the kid. “I think _you’re_ just not very good at this.” Brian/Brock turns on his blades and glides gracefully down the decline.

“That was exactly as humiliating as I expected it to be,” David remarks when the class ends. The kids have been collected. It’s just him and Patrick and the light reflecting off the snow.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself; you did great.” Patrick says. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

“And somewhere for me is apparently with the ankle biters.”

David wants to curse the wit he was raised on as suddenly Patrick is bending down at his feet and playing with the hem of his pants. “I don’t see any teeth marks.” Patrick slithers up into David’s eye line. “I think you’re gonna make it.”

“Bite me,” David says. He’s inches from Patrick’s mouth. It wouldn’t be a stretch.

x

David wakes up again at 8am the next morning, jogged this time by nerves and a stretchy, sore pain in his inner thighs and outer hips, not his phone’s chime.

With heavy eyes he read the text from Patrick time-stamped 6:14am. He grimaces at the hour, hoping that message is cosmically received.

_Great job yesterday, David. Got a few clients in the morning but if you want to work on drills stop by the learning zone after 3pm -- I’ll be there!_

_my legs,_ is all he manages to texts back before tossing the comforter back over his head and sleeping for another few hours.

Despite the muscle pain, he eventually rallies. He gears up again and walks at half pace down to the café for lunch. Somehow, and really to no surprise, everyone has heard about yesterday’s kiddie lesson.

“Coach D!” Stevie calls out to him as he crosses the lobby. It’s almost enough to make him turn right around and go back upstairs.

“Forget you know me,” he snaps back.

“Aw don’t be like that,” Stevie is all false sympathy. “I hear you’re getting really good. Like, third-grade-level good.”

“I’m reporting you to management!” He says, flipping her off.

“We’re all rooting for you, David!” He doesn’t need to turn around to tell she’s making the same gesture.

Ronnie is outside when the sliding glass door opens, replacing a chipped stone in the drive. “Let me know if I need to beat him up,” she says. She’s holding a jackhammer, so David opts to make a face instead of an incriminating verbal response. He’s not interested in being charged as an accessory to this potential crime, but it’s good to have someone on his side.

x

The learning zone is only marginally less pathetic than the toddler hill. He’s heartened by the number of other over-18s who keep running into the plastic fence that surrounds the flat plane, but only slightly.

“David. Weight in the _opposite_ leg.” Patrick has kindly (or egregiously, depending on how you look at it) abandoned the other patrons for the last half-hour to focus on David’s technique alone. David pushes down into his right foot. “Yes, that would have been correct if you were trying to turn left.”

His ski is trapped in the fence again. Patrick has to get down on all fours to untangle him.

“As much as possible, David, keep your weight even,” Patrick says as David regains his stance. “Bend your knees more if you feel unsteady; it will help your stance. Always be ready to shift. Rigidity is not your friend. On skis.” This whole scene puts David back in high school, pretending not to know future-perfect tense to get Isybel to teach him again. The first time, he really did need the tutoring help. The next five times may have had a new motive attached. David can only wish he was faking his ineptitude today. “When you shift to one side, don’t think of it as being off kilter. Think of it as moving your entire sense of center over to a new axis. Need to turn left? Shift away, share the desire to turn left with the influence of the right side.”

They practice this without David traveling any distance. He has his poles planted firmly in the ground and Patrick’s hands on his hips as he practices leaning left, right, left, right. He imagines the wind against his face and the trees rushing by at a blurring speed. He imagines getting it right.

When Patrick’s shift is over, David waits as he packs up. He tried to make a smooth exit, not wanting to overstay the welcome of their very new whatever-this-was, but Patrick keeps him in conversation.

“We might be ready to go up the mountain tomorrow, David.”

David tilts his gaze towards the sky to look at nature’s snowy, glistening death trap. He’d almost tricked himself into believing he’d never actually have to go _up_ there.

“I appreciate your confidence in me,” David feigns nonchalance. “But you must be joking.”

“I never joke about ski preparedness.” Patrick looks very, very serious for a few seconds until a smirk breaks through. It’s not a good joke. It might not even be a joke, but fuck, David is charmed. And possibly worse, convinced.

x

“If you take me to that toddler class one more time, so help me god,” is all David offers in greeting Patrick the next morning. "I swear on my mother’s Daytime Emmy nomination hopeful list I will—”

“No kids today, David, nothing to worry about there.” Patrick’s kind, carefree smile knocks the threat right out of David’s throat. It might also contribute to how he floats from base all the way up to the chair lift loading platform without noticing where his feet have taken him.

“Mhm-mhm. Nope. Heights. I do not do them.” David says over Patrick trying to explain exactly how to sit and lift his skis to load onto the floating hazard safely. As if _safely_ was a word applicable to this situation.

“You do realize skiing usually involves going down a mountain? And to go down you first have to get up said mountain?”

It should be telling to Patrick how frightened David is that he can’t even form a comeback to that causticity. “Oh well. Yesterday was a good day. Quit while I’m ahead, right?” David makes a move to shuffle away.

“Hey, David.” Patrick’s voice is low and coaxing. So he did notice.

“David’s not here right now.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “David is in front of a warm fire watching reruns of _Below Deck._ ” A hand encircles his, and he can’t help but peek one lid back open.

“I’m not going to force you, but I promise it’s safe.” Patrick’s eyes are soft around the corners and firm in intent. “I ride this dozens of times a day. Hold on to my hand. Don’t look down. You can do this.”

David is so used to people giving up on him at these moments, when he gives up on himself. But Patrick is looking him right in the eyes, and David can’t detect a retreat. The hand in his squeezes a little, and an errant thumb strokes over the bend of David’s wrist. Where does Patrick get off on treating him like this, three days into their arrangement? If this is day three, what’s four? What’s _ten?_

“Okay,” David says, desperate to find out.

Patrick’s returning smile is a new model. David adds it to the register he then realizes he’s been keeping—#7. Closed mouth, lower lip pushing up and chin tucked in to try and neutralize it. (Not to be confused with #4, closed mouth and twisting up to one side.)

“Stand here,” Patrick says, placing David in front of the approaching, floating chairs. David focuses all his energy on not falling over before the worst even arrives to sweep him off his feet. “And when I count down, sit. Hold your polls close, skis on the foot bar, I’ll secure the safety rail.” David’s vision is foggy, but Patrick’s words ring clear. “David?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good. Three, two, one—”

x

They are practicing stops up on the flat area ahead of the easiest emerald run when David asks, "Don’t you have any other clients today? Someone else to bother?” He hopes the answer is yes, so he can take a hot shower and nurse his legs and a cocktail in front of Meg Ryan. He hopes the answer is no because, well...

Patrick squints back at him or maybe just at the sun. “Uh, just you today.”

“Not even the kid’s class? Isn’t that every day?”

“You know what, are you hungry David? I’m hungry.”

David ignores the speed of Patrick’s topic change in favor of, always, a snack. “Yes!” he says, too quickly, and then realizes they have to, like, _ski down_ to get to the restaurant.

“Your turns are looking great David,” Patrick says when David mentions as much. “And you can break well. We’ll side-slip down if it gets too steep for you, okay? You set the pace.”

David doesn’t _want_ to do this, but he probably _can_. What kind of mind tricks was Patrick playing on him? A few lessons and the most athletic proficiency of his whole life. Sure, this was the most novice path on the entire mountain, but he’d started with literal children a few short days ago. Was Patrick that inspiring a teacher, or had David simply never received validation and support like this before while working towards a goal? That’s a rhetorical question.

“Where are your hands?” Patrick asks as David positions himself at the start of the incline.

“Out front,” he replies, making the now familiar gesture forward.

“Steady shin pressure, stay with equal weight on the feet, breathe,” David sucks in five seconds of air. “Push off.”

David follows the command and begins to drift slowly down the mountain. He can see the main resort in the distance; it really is quite a short way. He panics for a second when he loses Patrick in his periphery, but a few moments later he appears slightly out front, skiing at an angle so he can watch David. It’s distracting to consider what Patrick is cataloging—for example, how ridiculous David must look trying to stay upright at a speed of five whole miles an hour. It’s distracting enough that he starts to veer right, towards the trees.

“Lean into your right foot!” Patrick calls out. It’s Pavlovian, how David obeys.

His course corrects straight and speeds up, gravity taking advantage of his alignment. David feels good, balanced, powerful. The wind stings at his cheeks and the scenery rolls by. It’s… nice—until his brain catches up with how fast he’s going. The word equilibrium vanishes from his vocabulary.

“Fuck, fuck, shit,” he curses to himself and angles his skis to break. In his panic, he pushes down a little too hard and flips over with the force of his attempted stop, landing chest down in the fluffy snow. “Guh,” is David’s response to Patrick as he breaks effortlessly, right next to where David lies.

“Anything hurt?” Patrick asks, light but serious, squatting down to David’s level.

“My dignity,” David croaks out, rolling onto his back.

“Remember how to stand?”

“Can I not have one minute to revel in humiliation?”

“This first fall is important, David. Nothing's broken, and now you know that little spills are necessary. Great job up until that point, by the way.” Enough with the compliments—another one, and David might start believing them.

“I can’t believe I agreed to this."

“That makes two of us,” Patrick says, quiet and barely escaping his scarf. Was Patrick _annoyed_ he had to make good on his offer to coach? Before David can dwell too long, Patrick speaks again, louder. “Patty melts on special today. And curly fries. Up, up,” Patrick pokes him playfully in the thigh with a pole end.

“Harassment!” David shrieks and moves to stand, awkward and effortful.

He skis the rest of the hill brow furrowed and mouth turned down as he tries to interpret Patrick’s intentions. There is some unexpected freedom in this elaborate fitness costume. The goggles hide his lingering gazes, and the face scarf protects his disobedient lips. The problem is: The gear does the same in disguising Patrick. David has never had less of a read on anyone.

They make it inside with all of David’s limbs intact. He expects Patrick to drop him at the cafe and be on his way to another client, but instead Patrick grabs a table for two like it was always his plan and flags Twyla down to order.

Obviously, they both get the special. After David finishes his own fries, he sets off stealing them from Patrick’s plate. Patrick throws salt packets at David’s head but lets him get away with the theft.

They are still getting to know each other, still going over basics like families and favorites. David wants to skip ahead to the ex-fiancé bit Stevie had mentioned and drops a few terrible relationship stories of his own into the conversation to prompt Patrick. Patrick stays silent on his own past but is vocal about his disapproval of David’s relationship history. “You deserve better than that,” he actually says at one point.

“It is what it is.” David stuffs another fry into his mouth to avoid elaboration and chews away the silence until Patrick changes the subject to a guy he taught last week that had brought his own custom gear.

“His boots were...somehow, pointy? I mean. You think you’ve seen it all but there is always room for surprise.” Patrick says, with the face of someone reliving a nightmare. David has not seen it all when it comes to alpine accessories, but he can agree that pointy shoes, in general, are incorrect.

“Incorrect, exactly!” Patrick says, laughing and grinning wide. “Your support in this trying time is really meaningful.”

“Mmm, you’re welcome.” David wonders what his own face is doing. If it looks as ridiculous, as unapologetically vibrant, as Patrick’s does.

“So generous.” Patrick is still smiling, still holding his gaze, as he speaks.

David shifts the focus back to Patrick. “Besides that guy though, you like teaching? Like… working here?” he asks.

“Yeah!” Patrick replies instantly, honestly. “It’s. Yeah, I worked at the same place for so long, with all the same people. Change is nice. New people are nice.”

David doesn’t let himself believe Patrick is talking about more than the staff at the resort. “Good. That’s. Good.” He steals another fry.

The lunch stretches past a reasonable amount of time for David to deny he’s doing anything but actively dragging it out. Skiing is the gateway drug, but he fears what other hobbies he would pick up to spend time with Patrick. The fear lies mostly in his glutes.

When he makes it back to his room, the light of the day is already starting to wane. He showers, bundles up in his coziest Brora cashmere twin set, and decides on an early night. He plugs in his very dead phone and only realizes when it pops back to life, illuminating the room in a cool blue glow, that today is Tuesday, Patrick’s day off.

Huh.

Imagine that.


	2. Chapter 2

It could be nerves again, but David wakes on Wednesday with something closer to motivation. It’s not that David is a listless person on the regular, but he reserves his energy for a specific set of tasks that certainly never included the voluntary outdoors.

He’s buzzing though, from the second his eyes break open. He reaches over to check his phone—7:45am. David would wonder what demon has possessed him, but his head seems to be screwed on straight, and there is no writing in blood on the walls—just a sturdy, reliable text from Patrick. He’s happy to see it, even realizes he was expecting it. That’s the real horror show.

_Big group today. So sorry, David. Take the day off. Rest up!_

Oh.

David orders room service French toast, eats it in silence, and makes a plan.

As revved up as he apparently is, getting on a chair lift alone is still not in his repertoire. He traces the path of the enclosed gondola car up the mountain on the map and finds a Verdite slope within walking distance, even if walking distance is over a mile.

Now, he needs an alibi.

He heads across the lobby in a robe, making sure everyone he passes is very aware he’s going to definitely spend the day in the spa and not anywhere else at all. Stevie absolutely does not buy it but gives a too-sincere thumbs-up as he passes by that tells him his secret is safe.

He sneaks back up to his room to change, then from his room out the side exit of the guest wing.

The gondola ride is… manageable.

He shares it with a young couple who laugh and kiss their way up to the mountainside. They have the courtesy to look apologetically at David between pecks and, to his shock and resentment, he doesn’t mind the close-quarters PDA. _Who am I to police their joy?,_ he thinks, which…what? And that is enough to distract him the rest of the way up.

It takes him thirty minutes to shuffle over to his chosen trail. But. He’s done it. No hand holding, no brown eyes. No parents, no Alexis. The starting line of his next trajectory.

David’s last foray into the physical had been a brief stint with yoga at a bougie Chelsea, New York, studio charging forty dollars a class. Something esoteric about the custom-engineered sound frequencies they played during the flow justified the upsell.

Balance, not mobility, was the goal, an instructor had told him, as he’d sweat his way into a pathetic variation on the splits. It didn’t make sense at the time. He had neither balance nor mobility—in the pose, clearly, but also in life. But if he favored one, it was definitely mobility. That stretch towards perfection, towards looking like you were doing as well as everyone else in the room. Getting ahead. You could fall down later, when no one was there, but you sure as hell better be able to put your leg behind your head when it counts.

Funny then, that his new athletic venture has really no need for mobility. Speed, maybe. Distance. But, none of that came without balance. None of it _mattered_ without balance. Lack that skill and you’d fall over, never make it far enough to need anything else.

David steels himself—polls out front, weight even, knees slightly bent—and starts down the first section of path. It’s slow going but feels steady and successful.

Patrick is waiting for him on the first landing.

“Warn a person!” David scolds, after Patrick has literally snuck up behind him and said boo.

“Excuse me, but I am the one who should have been warned about my star pupil taking to the pistes alone.” David doesn’t want to go so far as to commit entirely to it, but he detects a hint of pride in Patrick’s voice.

“Please don’t call me names.”

“Star pupil?”

“Piste.”

Patrick’s shoulders do the work of a laugh as he crosses his arms and fixes an amused nod in David’s direction. “I was not expecting this.”

 _As if I was,_ David thinks, but says, “Just tell me who tipped you off.”

Patrick’s amusement cracks into a wide grin, then an audible laugh. Then, a playful glint appears. “The hills have eyes,” he whispers.

“Well that’s reassuring.”

While Patrick gets caught up in his laugh, David seizes the moment to speed off down the hill. Speed being a relative term.

It’s only twenty-odd seconds before Patrick catches up to him. Instantly, he lines up to David’s pace, swerves in informed communication with David’s every motion. It makes sense that Patrick can so easily match his style. This is Patrick’s job, to be in sync.

But for David, this level of collaboration is exceedingly rare. Sometimes he can finish a sentence of Alexis’s and, to be fair, he always knows which wig his mother is going to pick. Beyond these small gestures of symbiosis? David moves through life without much harmony. He plays in a different, dissonant key to those around him.

When he was hooking up with Tom Daley for a few weeks back in the mid-aughts, Tom had insisted David do laps with him—boy was a fish and could hardly stay out of the pool for a few hours at a time. Tom glid through the aqua, chlorine-heavy water, and David sputtered behind him doing a poor approximation of breaststroke, trying to keep his hair dry.

Sweeter, more forgiving than most of his past flings, Tom still couldn’t put up with David’s asynchrony. He didn’t adjust his speed to what David had to offer. Instead, David scrolled through Twitter on the bleachers until Tom pulled him into the showers to fool around. As they got to know each other more that week, the pattern repeated. David kept different hours, laughed at different jokes in movies, kissed for different reasons. He enjoyed their fling but knew that’s all it could ever be.

Patrick is so analogous to David in the snow that David allows himself to conceive of the other ways they might align, that there could be something else between them. If they kissed, would Patrick be equally attuned?

When they reach the bottom of the hill, David is breathing heavily and full of adrenaline. He turns right around to look back up the slope, taking his goggles off and pulling his scarf down as he admires, vision unencumbered, the distance traveled.

Patrick is floating towards him like a model on the cover of Sports Illustrated, arms thrown around David before he registers the proximity.

“That was amazing, David!” Patrick says into David’s shoulder. “A perfect run!” The wind rushes around David’s head making his eyes water.

“Uh. Thanks,” David says, small and aloof.

“You did it!” Patrick holds up both hands to high-ten. David meekly meets the gesture.

“Brutal winds, huh?” He adds, like the weather is what’s on David’s mind. And the next bit happens in slow motion: Patrick reaches over to grab at David’s scarf, bringing it to the corner of David’s eye and dabbing delicately at his tears.

Then, as fast as it began, Patrick is moving away, unclipping his shoes, and picking his skis up to carry.

“Hey, I was wondering,” Patrick says with no segue, no mention of the private space he’d just unlocked. “How’d you get up? Did you take the lift?”

“Gondola.”

Patrick’s head tilts to the side and David can see the mental map he’s drawing in his mind. David blushes but the cold air graciously holds his secret.

“Huh.” Patrick says, and David’s gonna need a lot more than ‘huh.’ “Well, I’m proud of you, David. I can see you’ve really put in the work.” But not that much more. “Going up again?”

David tries to settle his voice into something that doesn’t give away how stuck he still is on Patrick’s prior words. “And spoil what is surely one-time perfection? No, thank you.” He seals the attempt at flippancy with a shift in attention. “And, don’t you have, like, a job you’re supposed to be doing?”

Patrick laughs and looks down at his hands. “I’m glad I ditched, if that’s what you’re asking.”

x

“Aprés-ski?” David greets Stevie as the day is turning over. “Wow that is, so much more fun to say with the knowledge that I was actually, like, exerting myself today.” The sense of personal accomplishment was not a side effect he’d been expecting, as he had never imagined any success at all.

“You’ve finally cracked the code, then.” Stevie steps out from behind the front desk, shrugging off her blazer, a clear sign the workday has ended. “But I can’t say I love this aura of self-satisfaction you have going on. It’s unbecoming of the Morticia Addams vibe I’ve grown to love.”

With a gasp and a hand over his heart David replies. “Love? Stevie Budd? Talk about unbecoming.”

“Alcohol. Please. Before this gets out of hand.”

“I literally thought you’d never ask.”

Then Stevie’s face twists into remembrance, “Would you be okay with a slight change of plans from our usual? Ray’s having a house party tonight.”

“I’m sorry, but have you forgotten what happened the last time you went to one of those?” David fixes an eyebrow to his hairline. “I cannot unhear that. And I still have not figured out how you managed to voice text me _during sex._ ”

“Will you drop it? I know you hit ‘keep’ on that audio.”

“Obviously. God.” David pretends to waffle for a few illustrative seconds, all in the neck. “Fine.”

Then Stevie says, in a rush, “Great there’s a theme it’s high school slumber party why don’t you go change and meet me back here in fifteen.” She is already halfway across the lobby before he can protest.

It takes him thirty minutes, of course, because some things are predictable.

Unpredictable: The door of Ray’s opens to Patrick, clad in comfy and worn-in grey sweatpants and a stretched out, loved, high school cross-country tee.

“Hi, welcome!” Patrick says, leaning on the frame of the door. Patrick looks as off-kilter as David feels. It seems they both thought they had a night off. “Party shots in the kitchen, and, well—I see you’ve brought your own, Stevie. I expect nothing less.”

Clutching a green bottle of Becherovka, Stevie says with an ominous grin, “Tastes like Christmas,” and abandons David at the entry.

“So, uh,” Strong start. “Ray hire you as the bouncer? Cause I left my ID in my other sleepers.”

“Ha, no, um.” Patrick cycles through. “I live here too.”

“Oh god, tell me it wasn’t your theme idea.”

“If I say it was a collaboration does that help or hurt my case?”

“Hurt, definitely hurt.” David says, but the words don’t bite. Patrick smiles back at the dig. It feels—dare David say—flirty?

“Can I get you a drink, David?” Patrick asks, holding his eyes.

“When at Padua High.” David replies, and he lets Patrick lead him to the kitchen area.

Patrick hands him a green Jell-O shot. They toast, then inelegantly slurp out of the plastic measures. Seventeen years in, there is still no cute way to do this.

“Mmm, takes me right back to Cancun,” David says, mouth full.

“Do I want to ask what high school was like for you?”

“How about you tell me your experience, and we just pretend I shared.” Candy bowls of E and pacifier necklaces flood his memory, but it’s early in the evening for that reveal.

“Well, now I’m curious,” Patrick looks like he might push further but retreats. “Mine was pretty normal. Really. Lots of sports, uh. Mathletes.” David can’t help but turn his lips up at the image of all that. Patrick returns the smile with a look that says _don’t start_. “First girlfriend. The predictable stuff.”

“No surprise you were a catch back then too.” And, fuck, he hadn’t meant to say that—rein it back in, Rose.

Patrick is doing his squinty thing again. “Eh, it was more like date one girl for the next fifteen years, get engaged, then break it off a few weeks later, but I’m sure you’ve heard the story already—”

David hasn’t, and is ready with approximately two hundred and thirteen follow up questions when Ray all but shouts, “Okay, party people, who’s ready for some party games! Hashtag T-B-T!”

David’s in the minority of responses, with more pressing matters to attend to, but still ends up in the circle next to Stevie watching the expired bottle of Woodbridge Cabernet spin around to land pointedly in his direction.

Patrick is sitting across from him, arms folded around his knees like he needs the compact form to hold himself together. He rocks a bit on the perch of his tailbone—nerves or impatience? The stretched hem of his vintage shirt rides up the side of his hip revealing light pink skin.

The spin that lands on David belongs to Ted, another instructor at the resort, who is adorably plastered and opted for a much more revealing tank and boxer combo as his costume, showing off his muscles.

“Come here, big guy,” Ted says with the enthusiasm only allowed to those who will likely not remember their words in the morning, and kisses David firmly on the lips, parting with a literal ‘mwah’ sound.

Not a bad kiss, all told. A bit one-sided, but David lets his mouth fall wide in faux scandal as Ted pulls away, plays up the reaction that he knows will get a laugh. He looks over to Patrick for conciliation but finds he’s already gotten up and out of the circle.

David grabs the bottle from Stevie and takes a swig. Whatever Christmas tastes like, it doesn’t help. And also, it’s March.

From then on, Patrick keeps a distance unless they end up in a group together. Yet, when David finds him across the room, it's like a fire is crackling nearby. Their eyes meet for a few blazing milliseconds before Patrick turns away to busy himself with clearing red cups and plates and beer bottles. Each time their eyes pull away David has to steady himself on the nearest solid hold like he’s some fainting virgin.

He trades sips and conversation with Stevie until she decides to drag Ted home, citing intimate knowledge of his teaching schedule the next day. “As funny as I find it when a guest ralphs off the chair lift, I don’t think staff doing it is the best look,” she says in lieu of a goodbye. So, now David has that image in his mind.

And suddenly, it’s just Patrick and David and Ray. Not even Ray, actually, as it appears even he has gone to his room.

“Well, if that’s not a sign to head out,” he says out loud, to no one in particular, but to Patrick by default.

“Snow’s picked up.” Patrick replies.

“Yay me.” David says, with a single jazz hand.

“Long walk back to the main building.”

“Hmm. Thank you for the reminder.”

Patrick winces. “Sorry—I mean.” His face goes neutral. “You can stay. If you don’t want to make the trek.”

Patrick remains unreadable, but David studies his face anyway. He tries to make an educated, only slightly wishful, guess. Patrick extended the first gesture, handing his business card to David, and that’s led them this far. Maybe he needs someone else to provide the courage tonight.

“Yeah. Sure.” David says, without further pause.

“Obviously, there’s no real couch—” Patrick trails off as David finishes his own scan around the room. Just a love seat, a few chairs, and beanbags that had seen much better days. Right. Staff housing. How has he only just taken stock of this tragic decor? “But the bed’s big enough, I think. To give you, uh, some space.”

Right to the chase, then. David’s glad to finally have confirmation, and it was sweet of Patrick to be coy about it, but David has been around the block. It was never really only one bed, was it? Certainly not that time with Miley Cyrus in Nashville (which had been more like only one hay bale), nor the time with Sam Smith at the Casper Mattress flagship store opening (even though there were, by design, a bunch of other beds).

Anyway, David had already said yes, made this bed, so he would lie in it too. He nods silently and steps a little closer into Patrick’s bubble.

“Right,” Patrick says. “Well. Bathroom is there. Extra toothbrushes in the cabinet, help yourself.” And he turns and heads into the bedroom leaving David to reassess the signals.

David does help himself, and brushes in front of the mirror, brow furrowed as he stares at his own reflection. He splashes some cold water on his face, which does nothing to make up for the night of lost skincare but plenty in bringing him back down to earth.

When David enters the bedroom, Patrick is already lying down, curled over on his side. The lights are already off. “Find everything you need?” he asks quietly.

David replies in the affirmative and carefully gets under the sheets, lying on his back and staring up at the popcorn ceiling. He goes to complain about the design choice, but other words come out.

"Why are you helping me?" David asks, still tracing the plaster-speckled sky.

“Tonight? It’s—it’s cold out, David.”

“No,” David clarifies. “This week. In general.”

"It’s,” Patrick sounds cautious, like he fears walking into a trap, “my job?”

David could appreciate Patrick’s attempt to let the conversation go, but he’s still tipsy and now warm under the duvet. The combination has a potent effect. The alcohol eases the words out of his mouth, and the blanket’s swaddle protects him from the self-doubt of an honest reply. "But why did you offer?”

“I had something to give.”

This still doesn’t add up. He tries a different route. “Okay... then, why _me?_ ”

Patrick’s pause is long and considered. "You know you’re sort of a celebrity here?"

David laughs without meaning to and asks in whispered astonishment, “What?"

“Like, an urban legend.” Patrick rolls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling too. "I never thought I’d actually meet you.”

“Context please,” David sneaks a glance sideways and follows the ridges of Patrick’s nose and lips, shadowed in the barely-there azure glow of moonlight through the window.

"Everyone talks about you.” The slopes of Patrick’s face evoke a ski path. “Even Ronnie has good things to say.” An advanced course, David thinks. Emotionally, at least. “Everyone notices you. How you help your sister, but also, how you treat the staff. You’re funny. Tip well. You…maybe you’re not always the sunniest, but you treat everyone the same.” David would be toast on that incline.

“I see.” He doesn’t believe what Patrick is saying and more so doesn’t understand how this relates to his question.

“You must know about this.” Patrick continues. “Everyone clearly loves it when you show up.”

"Um. No they don’t?” This conversation was going in all the ways David could never have seen coming, and he needed to steer it back to reality. “I guess, I know Stevie doesn’t hate me? But in a ‘we are both miserable, let’s be miserable together’ kind of way?”

“Seriously? Let me just… refresh my brain to accommodate this new, humble version of you.”

“Ha ha.” David sarcastically laughs back, but his edge is soft. His mind is swirling with this report, which, frankly, must be an exaggeration, right? He has to do something to tamp down on the spiral, so he pulls the pillow out from under his head to swat at Patrick. When in doubt, revert to middle-school crush tactics.

Patrick seizes the pillow right out of David’s hand and drops it on the floor at the other side of the bed. “Now you’ve lost your privileges.”

The bed shakes with laughter and David wants to roll over onto Patrick. Wrestle for the pillow back. Play with the curly ends of his hair. Kiss him, of course, but that's strangely low down on the list. Even though he can barely see anything but shadows in the dark, it’s too hard to look at this moment. Too much. He covers his eyes with his hand.

“Sorry, but I just want to make sure I’m getting this right,” David starts. “You’re helping me because…you heard I was a _good person_ and so you _wanted to?_ ”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Patrick asks, like it’s simple.

“Yeah, actually.” Yeah. Actually.

And just like that, the pillow he’d lost minutes ago is dropped back onto him. He just barely stops himself from saying _oof_ as it makes contact. He hugs it tight to his chest to avoid seeking another embrace.

“Making assumptions like that gets me in a lot of trouble,” David says after a short silence.

“Assumptions such as…someone might like you? Might want to be around you?” Patrick asks, and finally rolls over to look at David for the first time since they laid down.

“Yeah, I don’t really assume the best intentions anymore? Just hope I don’t get murdered or, like, end up stranded at the Marfa, Texas, Prada store wearing off-the-rack J Crew. “

“That sounds too specific to be hypothetical.”

“Well, like I said. Trying to make predictions about people has gotten me in some strange situations, so. I don’t anymore. I just let stuff happen and. Uh, don’t think about it. Good or bad.”

“I understand that,” Patrick adds, soft. “Not the uh, J Crew thing—I’ve definitely worn that proudly.” David huffs a laugh. “But the, ah, assumptions. My life, it got ahead of me, I think, because I stuck a little too firm to my predictions about the way it should go, what people wanted from me.”

“Your fiancé?” David makes a guess.

“Mmm,” Patrick replies. “Sometimes even the good things you imagine for yourself aren’t the right ones.”

“Sure,” David postures, reaching for a valuable response to that maxim.

Patrick lets out a yawn and it shifts the mood. “I’m not—I’m not faking it, David. I like spending time with you, helping you. This isn’t some trick to lure you into a mountain cave and leave you for dead.”

“Very comforting image to fall asleep to, thanks,” David replies. A hand moves over to squeeze his for a second then lets go as Patrick rolls back onto his side. “Thank you, though. You’re a. Um, a good teacher.”

Patrick sighs a little and burrows down, getting comfortable. “I know,” he says. David can’t see the smirk, but he knows it’s there. “Night David.”

David stays on his back, stiff as a board, hands clasped over his stomach. He takes a breath in, a breath out, trying to calm the avalanche of thoughts in his mind.

David surfaces only once in the middle of the night, that way alcohol knocks you out of deep sleep with a gasp and a dry mouth. He’s still a safe six inches away from Patrick, hasn’t embarrassed himself by octopussing out and tangling their limbs.

What if he did? The thought rattles his sluggish mind. _What if?_ He imagines reaching over and just resting a hand on Patrick’s hip or shoulder. Would it wake him up and would the night air camouflage their desire into mutual action? Or maybe nothing would happen yet, but when they woke up their limbs would mingle and instead of shying away David could lean in, kiss the sleep out of Patrick’s mouth. He would like to do that, like to live through that possible future.

He trails a hand over until he feels the heat of another body tingle at its atmosphere. He drags his foot out to the side, more of the same. Not quite touching, but closer.

x

When David wakes up, the room is bright with natural daylight. He’s pancaked on the bed, face down, center stage. His whole body tenses when he remembers whose bed he’s in. He scans his limbs for contact with another person but only registers mattress.

He rolls over and looks around—no Patrick in sight. Just a glass of water and a pill and underneath it, a note:  
_David — Stay as long as you want.  
I’ve got a packed day.  
Please rest.  
P_

He takes the Aspirin, downs the water, and collapses back into the sheets.

When Patrick had woken up, how long had he puttered around the flat in his morning routine while David snored in the background, shirt riding up to reveal an unglamorous line of stomach. And, was that drool on the pillow? Saint that he is, Patrick probably didn’t judge David’s sleeping form at all, just covered him back up and shut the door extra quietly to make sure not to wake him.

_I’m still dreaming,_ he thinks, when his eyes next blink open, and it’s to the sight of Patrick. Patrick, smiling at him damp haired and dewy.

“Morning.”

“Time’s it?” David croaks out, throat catching on the sound of his first words of the day.

“Eleven.”

“What about—?” David gestures over to the note vaguely.

“Storm picked up. No visibility. Mountain is closed.”

David scooches to sit upright, feeling like he’s overstayed his welcome. Patrick is eyeing him expectantly, and, right—David has gone and co-opted his bed, hung out in his apartment as if he had any right to. David is familiar with morning-after etiquette, and this is not it. But also, was this technically a morning after?

“Gosh, well.” David touches his face and runs fingers across the dip of a pillow crease on his cheek. He pushes a hand through his sleep-matted locks. He must look an absolute mess, particularly contrasted with Patrick’s fresh, alert face looking back at him. Also, David had just said gosh. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“David,” Patrick says and angles his seat on the bed closer. “I meant what I said. Stay as long as you want.”

David’s tongue slips out to wet sleep-dry lips. Patrick’s eyes drop down to track the gesture.

Considering what else David’s accomplished this week, leaning over to kiss Patrick seems easy. Inevitable. With one hand he grips the sheets for stability, and the other he slides up Patrick’s face. Their lips meet and his hypothesis is confirmed. It is markedly synchronous. Lined up. In tune.

He’s had longer kisses, more passionate ones, but never with someone he liked. Someone who thought he was good. David pulls away and has to bite down on his satisfied smile. Patrick is doing the same (a classic #6).

“Thank you,” Patrick says after a beat.

David isn’t sure he’s ever been thanked for a kiss. With Patrick, there are a lot of firsts still ahead of him. “For what?”

Patrick’s face is busy managing whatever emotions lie underneath the surface. “You _slept in my bed,_ ” he says. “I was kicking myself all the way to work, and when I got off, I thought: if I get back and he’s still there…I will not let him leave here without us having done. That. So, thank you. For, um. Making that happen for us.”

A confession like that is a kissable offense, so David leans back in.

“Um, you should know, I’ve never done that before.” Patrick’s hand between them pushes back a little against David’s chest so he stops before making contact. “With a guy.”

“Okay.” David pulls back to assess Patrick’s expression—not regret…

“Yeah,” David smiles small and waits for Patrick to decide what to share. “It’s a lot to process. I need to go. Slow. But, I want you to stay?”

“Mmm, just gotta cancel some other—”

“Don’t get smart with the new guy.” Patrick closes the distance this time, eyes doing the work to lead his lips to follow.

Again, it’s pretty innocent by David’s standards. Though, he hasn’t thought about his morning hair in like, three whole minutes, which signals something else entirely.

“I’m gonna take a shower?” Patrick asks then adds with more conviction when they are farther apart, “I’m gonna take a shower. Please don’t—ski away. You know, now that you’re an expert.” Patrick’s made it to the door of the ensuite now. He looks back over at David and winks.

“That!” David whines. “You were doing it on purpose!”

“What, did you think I had something in my eye every time I was around you?”

“It was a working theory!”

“No, David. If you can believe it—I thought you were good and cute.”

David falls back down on the bed, spreads out, stakes a claim with intention. He’s too relieved this isn’t one-sided to come back at that. The bed is solid and supportive underneath. It’s okay to want this and to be here and to trust that it’s real.

Eventually, he pads into the kitchen, still wrapped in the comforter, brews a coffee pod, and takes it out onto the balcony. It’s just warm enough inside the blanket, but he still breathes out visible air. He has a balcony attached to his suite too. He’s never been out on it just to sit and look up at the peak.

“Oh, this makes total sense,” is how Patrick greets him fifteen minutes later, showered, dried, and wearing striped joggers paired with a deep blue pullover. “Sitting outside in a snowstorm. You really are becoming one of us.” 

“Take it back.” David pokes at him with a corner of the blanket. Patrick uses the fabric to pull David in, hold him by the waist.

“What do you want to do today?”

“Well, you’re giving me ideas,” David tilts his head back as Patrick places a kiss at his jaw, “But someone said they wanted to take it slow.”

“You’re right,” Patrick pulls back like he’s burning, hands still on David’s hips, but a reasonable foot away. “Leave room for Jesus.”

David rolls his eyes and peels the hands off of him. He won’t risk rapacity today. Whatever Patrick wants to give is plenty. “Movies and snacks? Very PG-13.” Patrick grabs a hand to drag him inside.

“You do know this movie is rated R, right?” Patrick asks once they are settled on the couch.

“Rules can be broken on a case by case basis. In this case—I cannot let you continue to work as a ski instructor without having witnessed the alpine glory of Renée Zellweger’s physical comedy.”

Through a bite of gruyere Patrick replies. “You’re right, that does sound high stakes.”

“Please take the sarcasm out of your voice, you do not want to fight me on this one.”

Patrick just keeps chewing and smiling, mouth closed. Good manners, even if he’s a little shit. David takes his own bite to give his mouth something, anything, else to do other than just meet the smile. He settles down in the couch. Patrick smells like generic vanilla shampoo and the spices of the mulled wine he’d set to simmer for their later enjoyment.

Later—with its accompanying cider—comes soon, and Patrick toasts out loud to David’s progress this week. David toasts silently to Dionysus, to help keep the blush off his face. The Greek delivers another blessing: Patrick gets handsy a few mugs in.

“God,” Patrick whines, and David would very much like to encourage that sound again, sucking harder on his throat in attempt. “I hate me from a few hours ago, but he was right.”

“About what,” David says, muffled by skin.

“Slower. We need to. David—” Patrick snakes a hand around to cup David’s chin and pull him to his eye line. “Don’t think I don’t want this. But, can I walk you home?”

David places a dry kiss just shy of Patrick’s mouth. “I’d love that.”

David’s never been so honored to be kicked out in his life.

“I want to ask you something,” Patrick says when they are standing outside the door to David’s room. “But you won’t like it.”

David surprises himself by not going immediately to the worst option.

“Can you get up at 6:30 tomorrow?” Patrick continues. “I want to show you something. Early birds only.”

David would love to say no, but there’s a new world order. One that he’s happy to obey. “Mmm, and what do I get out of this?”

“A very enthusiastic kiss from a morning person who will also show up with coffee?”

“And a muffin?”

“And a muffin, David.”

“Yeah, okay,” David says and taps his room key to open the door. David is tired, despite the mostly lazy day. It’s exhausting, producing that much joy.

x

What Patrick wanted to show him, at the ungodly hour, was this: the mountain, first tracks. No one else around and pristine, smooth snow, first tracks was the first ski of the day.

Patrick’s staff status gets him earlier access than anyone else. And, after the promised macchiato and pastry, they settle onto the lift. David holds on to Patrick tightly, but his motivations are tinged with more specialness than fear. They ride to an altitude David’s never been at before.

So, here he stands, hundreds of meters above sea level, looking down over the now familiar valley—well, always familiar from the ground. Now it was familiar from this height too.

Patrick is to David’s right, waiting for his cue. Patrick, who thinks David is good.

On the first section of hill, David is warming up to the new casualness he feels on skis. With shifting turns starting to show up as muscle memory rather than active thought, he can take in the scene with more wonder and focus. With no one else on the path, he’s in his own little universe, like the mountain rose out of the ground just to meet his mind here today.

He’s lost in thought when he hears a grunt from behind. When he slows and turns to look back, it’s to the sight of Patrick flat in the snow.

Before David has time to worry about injury, Patrick sits up, laughs, and brushes the flurries from his shoulders, takes his goggles off to squeegee the lens with his glove.

“Serves me right for trying to impress you.” Patrick stands quickly, practiced.

“I’m very impressed,” David says, “By how you’re taking this really embarrassing, unprofessional failure so well.”

“One, it was definitely your fault and, two, if something is broken, I’m sending you the medical bills.”

“My fault!” David gasps. It echoes in the pines.

“You’re very,” Patrick says, now back in David’s grabbing distance. “Distracting.” Patrick’s eyes are narrow and pierce into David. He moves closer.

Navigating intimacy on skis is a new obstacle for David and not a challenge he prepared for. It’s worth the effort, though, if it means he gets to kiss Patrick, maybe lick off some of the icy flakes the fall left behind on his chin.

At the same time as lips meet, his blade-tips tangle with Patrick’s and send them tumbling back into the powder.

“Oh my god,” David says, grasping at Patrick’s shoulders. “Oh my god, I’m going to die up here because of you.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Patrick says and flips them, entangled skis and all, so that he is now mostly on top of David. He leans down to complete the interrupted kiss. They can’t exactly make out in the snow forever (though surely there are worse ways to get frostbite), but they make a good attempt.

"Who are you,” David says, an indefinite amount of time later, when their make-out has seen panting and rocking hips added into the mix. At some point, Patrick had detached his skis. Less adept, David is still encumbered, legs bent at an unfamiliar angle to accommodate the current activities. “And what have you done with Patrick ‘Take it Slow’ Brewer?”

“Well, he met this guy,” Patrick says.

“It’s the ski get-up, isn’t it?” David asks. Attempting a sultry wiggle while pinned to the ground achieves debatable results.

Patrick breathes out a laugh and sort of just goes limp on top of David, head landing over David’s heart center. “Yeah.” He says. “Yeah.”

David is star-fished in the cold snow. Some other force is keeping him warm today. “I have a confession,” he says, inspired beyond his conscious mind.

“Oh no,” Patrick replies, mock terror.

David gathers a handful of snow to toss lazily at him. “I think I like skiing.”

“Yeah?” Patrick smiles more than speaks, lifting his head to look at David.

“Thank you for sharing it. For wanting me to try.” David says. “I almost got on a plane last week, instead of texting you. Taking you up on your offer. I didn’t think—I wasn’t planning on,” David flops his gloved hand in the space above them, “this. But. I’m happy?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“I’m happy.” David rolls his eyes.

David can tell Patrick is using all his practiced coach-control to avoid saying ‘I told you so.’ The restraint demonstrates how substantive the admission is. The results are more important than ownership of their origin.

Patrick stands and holds a hand out to help David up. “I like you skiing too.”

David understands the need for goggles now (even if he still is going to find a way to get a custom pair made in less garish reflective undertones). There was so much to shield from up here: The reflection of the sun. Patrick’s curious eyes.

“I used to do this all the time, with Rachel,” Patrick says. “Almost every morning. But I haven’t been able to since we broke up. It felt, I think. It felt like it was tied to the choices I’d made back then. To being that person. And that I didn’t deserve this anymore. Enjoying this.”

“Patrick,” David adds uselessly, struck blind by the honesty.

“I didn’t plan for this either. I just wanted to help you, show you something I loved.” In his pause, Patrick fixes his arms around David’s neck, resting elbows on his shoulders. “To be up here. To feel useful and wanted. You make this feel right again.”

He’ll never have adequate words to respond to that, so David pulls Patrick in for a hug instead. They are at an angle such that David can’t see base below, but he senses the tangible presence of their destination and what they are, together, headed towards. And in between that, seemingly endless untouched, unoccupied snow. Whatever he and Patrick carve with their blades on the way down will be singular, theirs. Whatever awaits them at the bottom, too.

“Are we ready to do this?” David asks. Patrick nods.

They kiss. They separate. They line up at the precipice.

“Soft knees,” Patrick corrects.

“Right. Wouldn’t want anybody else falling today,” David says, but does adjust his stance. He pushes off down the hill with a smirk.

Patrick makes the same move, if with a tad more grace, just alongside him.

David shifts right. Left. Settles in the middle. Balanced.

He takes the turns in stride.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my majestic beta, this-is-not-nothing for holding my hand on the chair lift up (and then some). To ICMezzo for waiting at the bottom of the slope with hot chocolate. To the Sports Fest Mods for cheering us all on. To the many ski buddies who gave tips and tricks as I careened down my own hill.
> 
> And thank YOU for reading! Who knows, leave a comment below and you may get your very own terrible winter sports metaphor in response!


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